


Once Upon A Time, A Thing Occurred

by BinahBee



Series: Once Upon A Time [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Badass Finn, Clueless Poe Dameron, Finn Swears a Lot, M/M, POV Poe Dameron, Pre-Slash, Stormtrooper Culture, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BinahBee/pseuds/BinahBee
Summary: Subtitle:  Adventures in Cross-Cultural MiscommunicationFinn and Poe speak the same language.  It should be no problem for Poe to help Finn adjust to life in the Resistance, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My take on post-TFA. I've tried to be canon-compliant ... at least, as canon-compliant as any Poe/Finn story can be! Be aware that nothing requiring archive warnings actually takes place during the story, but a lot of very disturbing subjects are discussed, including non-con, dub-con, and other varieties of consent issues. Please use judgement in reading.
> 
> Story is complete and will update weekly. Feedback very much appreciated!

Someone was shouting and tugging on Poe's pants leg.

Poe pulled his head out of the guts of his right exhaust manifold sensor, which was making a disturbing buzzing noise. “I'm sorry, were you talking to me?”

“I'm supposed to tell you 'he's awake',” said the mechanic, jerking a thumb at a droid disappearing back out of the X-Wing hanger. “The droid wanted you to know.”

Poe stared at the mechanic for a minute, still lost in Black One, before sliding down off the S-foil where he'd been precariously balanced. “Thanks!”

“Want me to take a look?” the mechanic offered.

“Yeah, would you?” Poe said, already pulling off the headlamp, anti-static gloves, and grounding coil. “I can't figure the damn thing out.” He was trotting out the door before the man managed to reply.

In the hospital wing, Finn looked the same as he had since he'd come out of the bacta tank, three days before. He was belly-down on a medical bed, face tucked into a c-shaped prop at the end of the cot. Tubes and leads ran to a nearby monitor. A blanket was lightly draped over his hips, his back exposed to the air. The thick, pink scar glistened with some gooey ointment that had been liberally smeared on.

“Hey, Finn,” Poe said cautiously, “you with me?” He gently touched Finn's undamaged shoulder. Unlike at previous visits, Finn twitched at the touch and muttered something, incomprehensible through the face cradle.

Poe crouched down and peered under the end of the bed, then slid further under to look up at Finn's face. “Hey, buddy, you awake?”

Finn's features were oddly distorted by the pillow and the angle, but his eyes were slitted open. “Hi,” Finn said, after a moment.

“Good to have you back,” Poe grinned.

“Hi,” Finn said again. His eyes had a distinctly unfocused look.

“Do you know who I am?” Poe asked, amused. _He's awake_ might have been a bit of an exaggeration.

“Ngh...” Finn said.

“Got it,” Poe said. “It's good to see you, anyway.”

Finn closed his eyes.

“Got it,” Poe said again and wriggled back out from under the bed, where he found a nurse staring down at him, coronal tentacles looped into curlicues that Poe thought might indicate amusement. “He's awake,” Poe said, by way of explanation. “Is he gonna be able to turn over any time soon?”

“Ask the doc,” the nurse suggested.

“Ask the doc what?” Kalonia asked, coming into the room and raising her eyebrows at Poe, still sitting on the floor.

“Can Finn get rolled over soon?” Poe asked, climbing back up to his feet and dusting off his pants.

“When he's awake enough to buzz us if he needs to be moved,” she said. “I didn't expect you here quite this quick, though I probably should have.”

“Well ….” Poe said.

“Try this evening,” she suggested. “Or tomorrow.”

“I'll just sit and wait with him for a bit, then.”

“If you want,” she said, “pull up a chair.”

Poe settled in to wait but it quickly became apparent that Kalonia's estimate was accurate. Finn slept and twitched and slept some more. Eventually, Poe gave up on waiting and went for his dinner, promising Finn he'd come back the next day. If Finn heard him, he gave no indication.

When Poe returned in the morning, Finn was awake and more-or-less sitting upright, propped into position by the tilted mattress and several pillows. He lit up when Poe entered the room. “Poe! You made it! I mean, they said you made it, and Rey made it, but ….”

Poe had no trouble deciphering this scattered communication. He hugged Finn carefully, hospital gown soft under his fingers, and dropped into the chair beside the bed, grinning broadly. “Yeah, buddy, I'm here. We made it through. Thanks to you, you did good! How are you feeling? How's your back?”

“I'm fine!” Finn declared. “I wiggled my toes for the doctor and everything.” He twitched his feet under the blanket by way of demonstration.

“That's great!” Poe said, a weight he hadn't known about sliding off his shoulders. “That's really good news. They told me it missed your spine, but … you were in that tank a long time. That's history, though, right?”

“Right,” Finn said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “I'll be good as new in record time, you'll see.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“She said I'm going to be fine,” Finn repeated. “I just need to, you know, practice a little with the regrown muscles. But no problem, right? I'll probably be out of here in a few days.” He turned his head, distracted by someone coming in the door, before his mouth opened comically.

“Good morning,” said the General, “how are you feeling, Finn?”

Finn lurched upright, his shoulders pulling back into some approximation of attention. Sweat popped out on his forehead as he flopped forward and tried to strangle pain-noises, then fell backwards against the pillows again. Even that soft contact caused his eyes to bug out, though he managed not to utter any more than an anguished grunt.

Organa rushed forward to grab his arm. “At ease, Mr. Finn. There's no parade ground in the hospital.”

“Ma'am,” Finn grated out, panting.

“Relax, soldier,” she said. “You're on leave here.”

“Ma'am,” he said again, “Yes, ma'am!”

“Do you want me to get you a doctor?” she asked. “Do you need medication?”

“No, ma'am!” Finn barked reflexively. “I'm fine, ma'am!”

“You look,” the General said with gentle humor, “about as fine as I'd expect you to look, at this stage of your recovery. If you need pain meds, ask for them. That's an order, soldier.”

“I'm fine, ma'am!” he said again, staring fixedly at a point just over the General's head.

“Very well, Mr. Finn,” she said gravely. She settled herself into the chair Poe vacated for her, waiting patiently until Finn finally dared to look directly at her. “I came to thank you and to recognize you for your service.”

“I was glad to do it, ma'am,” he said sincerely. “Thank you for giving me the chance.”

Organa nodded. “I'm glad to have you on my team. You have the gratitude of the Resistance, Finn, and of me, personally.”

Finn hesitated, clearly weighing his words. “Ma'am,” he said tentatively, “I've been out for weeks. You must have heard …. If I may say so, ma'am, I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said gently. “At some point in the future, I would like to hear your story of how it all went down. For now, though, you should rest and recover.”

Finn nodded acceptance of this request, but his eyes darted sideways to Poe. “Have they told you how long recovery will be, ma'am?”

“I haven't asked yet,” she said, “but you will get whatever time you require. Without limit, Finn. Your actions save billions of lives. You are entitled to any care you need.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Finn whispered, looking a little overwhelmed. “I hope I may continue to be of service to the Resistance.”

“In time, Mr. Finn. You will always have a place here if you want it. But I want to be clear, you can leave at any time, if you want that. You are under no obligation to stay, if you want to go.”

“I understand, ma'am,” Finn said. “I will be of service.”

Organa looked at him slant-wise. “Rest,” she said, “and heal. That's your only responsibility right now. I will get reports from Kalonia on how well you are resting.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said very seriously. “I will follow her orders.”

On his way out of the medical bay, Poe paused to poke his head into Kalonia's cramped office. “So, Finn's stuck here in medical a while longer?”

Kalonia looked up at him disapprovingly. “I know he's your friend, Dameron, but how much of his medical information am I supposed to make you privy to? You want to know that sort of thing, ask him, not me.”

“He says he's fine.”

Kalonia grunted. “Well, there's your answer then.”

“I wasn't born yesterday. What's his real prognosis?”

“Ask him.”

“Come on, Kalonia,” Poe gave her his patented, wide-eyed pleading look, which had been known to melt glaciers. “He needs all the support he can get.”

“I'm glad to know he's got you in his corner.”

“But how am I supposed to support him if I don't know what he needs?”

“Creatively.”

“Please?”

“I've got paperwork to do, Dameron.”


	2. Chapter 2

It didn't take Poe long to figure out what Finn wasn't saying. Thanks to the combined miracles of bacta and stem cell paste, there were muscles and nerves where there would only have been scar tissue otherwise. That didn't mean they were strong or coordinated enough for Finn to use them. On his own, Finn could painfully crawl a few feet across the floor. Standing was only possible if he had an object to cling to. Walking unsupported, which required all his core muscles acting together to give him balance, was utterly beyond him.

Normally, Poe had a routine when one of his team was injured. Regular visits, mostly scheduled but occasionally a surprise. Cheerful words. Contraband snacks. Bemoaning the team member's absence. Comical stories of how badly the team was functioning short-handed. Detailed reports on astromech and X-wing repairs. It wasn't a complicated formula but it never failed to cheer and encourage. Finn, Poe discovered, was neither cheered nor encouraged.

Not that he didn't pretend to be. Finn radiated optimism and enthusiasm every time Poe visited him. If he were a better liar, Poe would have felt reassured. As it was, it was painfully clear to him that Finn was on edge every minute Poe was with him. Poe eventually resorted to grilling the nurses to find out if it was his own presence that somehow pushed Finn into deceit or if he did it all the time. He was mildly relieved to discover that Finn was lying (badly) to the nursing staff as well.

On a scale of one to ten, his pain level fluctuated between one and three. The nurses had learned to trust the tightness around his eyes and the rigidity of his jaw over his self-reports. Finn always refused offered narcotics but took them meekly if told they were ordered. The doctors quickly stopped asking his opinion.

“Buddy,” Poe said, “everyone knows how badly you were injured.”

“I know,” Finn said shortly. “I'll be back in fighting order in no time, don't worry.”

“I'm not worried. I know you're going to be okay. I think you're the only one who's worried.”

“I'm not worrying,” Finn stated stoutly. “I'm going to be fine. You'll see.”

“I know you will be. I have confidence in you. But if you _were_ worrying, that would be okay. No one would think badly of you, if you were.”

“Mmm. Well, I'm fine.”

At least the contraband snacks seemed welcome.

*** * ***

The trip from the briefing room to the hanger necessarily passed the hospital wing. This seemed sufficient excuse to stop in and visit Finn on his way, but when he got into the medical bay, Poe found Finn's door uncharacteristically closed. Rather than knock, he dropped into a nearby chair to wait while they finished whatever exam was in progress.

Passing by, Major Kalonia smiled at him but said, “Go on, Dameron. Intelligence will be in there with him for another twenty minutes and he'll want a nap after that.”

Poe frowned up at her. “Intelligence is after him to talk to them from his sick bed? That's not right.” He stood and started towards the door.

Kalonia grabbed his arm. “Don't you dare interrupt them,” she said. “That's an order, Commander.”

“You approve of this?” he demanded.

“I absolutely approve of this,” she said. “I requested it. He's been driving us crazy, wheedling for some kind of work to do. From his hospital bed, when he can't stay awake for more than an hour at a time. And now that I've finally got it going, you're not going to disrupt it, or his nap afterward.”

“Three hours, Commander,” she continued, steering him toward the door. “He'll sleep for _three hours_ afterward. Do you know how much work my techs can get done in three hours?”

“Which they can't do when he's awake?” Poe said, disbelieving.

“I have never in my _life_ seen anyone who gossips like he does. Come back in the afternoon,” she added as she shoved Dameron out the door. “You can entertain him for me then.”

*** * ***

Somehow,  Poe had never expected  end up in an  _ argument _ about it.

Finn shook his head, “No, it's good. I can do this, it's something I can contribute to the Resistance. I'm glad to do it. And the General was really clear, I can stay as long as I am useful.”

Poe frowned. “Is that what she said? I don't think that's what she said. I seem to recall she said you could stay in the hospital as long as you needed to heal.”

“Sure,” Finn nodded cheerfully. “That's what she said.”

“So that means you can stay whether you are useful or not,” Poe pointed out.

“That's what she said,” he agreed. “So I can stay as long as I work, and I've found a way to contribute which, let me tell you, is a big relief.”

Poe sat for a moment, trying to puzzle his way through his friend's reasoning. “She said your job was to rest and recover,” he tried again.

“Yeah,” Finn said. “I'm following orders, everything the doctor and the physical therapist say.”

“She seemed really explicit, to me,” Poe continued. “You get to stay in the hospital as long as you need to, and you can stay or go, however you want.”

“Right,” Finn said. “That seems fair. She's a really fair person, isn't she? They fed us all sorts of propaganda, in the First Order. It made sense at the time, but in retrospect I think most of it was bullshit.”

“I'm sure,” Poe said, dragging the topic back to Finn's recovery by force of will, “but my point is, you don't need to be working now in order to stay. You can just stay. It's okay.”

Finn gave him a look that said, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was convinced Poe had lost his mind. “Right,” he said, “she said I can stay. And she said I can go, whenever I want. It makes perfect sense. Stay and work, or stop and leave. It's fair. I like that about her. She's a good leader, isn't she? I'm going to like working for her.”

“Yeah,” Poe said, giving up on following Finn's logic. “She's a good leader.”

  



	3. Chapter 3

Finn was cleared to leave medical the day he managed to lurch from one end of the hospital wing to the other, leaning heavily on a walker and followed by a sturdy physical therapist who shuffled along behind him just in case Finn overbalanced in the wrong direction.

His smile, that day, finally seemed genuine.

Poe pulled strings, of course. Finn was assigned a room in the pilots' corridor, though it would have made more sense to house him with the infantry or the analysts, or perhaps close to the medical wing where he could get back and forth quickly. “It'll be easier for you in officer's quarters,” he insisted. “You'll have a room to yourself and your own fresher, plenty of space for the walker and such. God knows, we've got too many empty after Starkiller. We'll look after you.”

Much to Poe's surprise, the medical staff agreed with him. Before Finn was permitted to move in, a technician armed with a clipboard went through the tiny apartment centimeter by centimeter and dispatched droids to make appropriate modifications for a man with limited mobility and terrible balance. It was, Poe thought, a mark of how desperately Finn wanted to leave the hospital that he never protested the hand rails and bed risers and shower stool.

Poe looked forward to introducing Finn to the freedom of life in the Resistance. Consequently, he was a little dismayed to discover he saw less of Finn living down the hall from him than he had when Finn was bed-bound in the hospital. Finn's morning routine of exercising and stretching in bed, levering himself to his feet, cleaning up while leaning precariously against whatever surface was handy, and getting dressed and out the door took long enough that Poe was usually gone from the mess hall by the time Finn shuffled in.

When asked, Finn insisted that putting on his socks and shoes took the majority of the time. He might even have been telling the truth.

Finn spent his mornings on medical affairs – training sessions with the physical therapist, or check-ins with the doctor – invariably followed by a nap. Lunchtime, which rarely coincided with Poe's lunch, was followed by sessions with the Intelligence team. Poe couldn't imagine what they found to interview him about for so much time; he was surprised to discover they were not only getting information from Finn but giving it to him as well. Small, carefully selected pieces of information to be sure, but Finn was beginning to learn the analyst's trade from some masters in the field. If the light in his eyes was anything to go by, Finn was enjoying the work.

“It's just putting the pieces together,” he explained once. “I know how to do that already. You know they have to fit together somehow, and you just play with them until you can see the shape of the pieces that aren't there. And then you can tell the whole story. It's a lot of fun, actually.”

Poe couldn't empathize, really – sitting in a chair all day, staring at a screen and fiddling with fragments of information, trying to sort out truth from lies – it was the last way he'd volunteer to spend an afternoon. Still, if it made Finn happy, well, why shouldn't he do it?

*** * ***

Poe watched Finn work his way through the medical bay for one of his rare, after-lunch appointments, greeting techs by name, grinning and exuberantly showing off his improved balance. His walker had recently been replaced with a cane.

Organa, stopping at the med bay for updates on personnel readiness, watched Poe watching Finn. “Don't say anything,” she advised.

“I beg your pardon?”

“To Finn. If you're interested. Just … well, it's your call, of course. But I'd recommend against it, at least right now.”

Poe hesitated a moment, a desire to get information warring with a sudden desire to seem disinterested. It wasn't a long battle. “Why is that?”

Organa sighed. “We don't know all that much about First Order culture, but there are a few things we've heard …. One is that it is entirely acceptable for officers to demand sexual favors from the Troopers in return for preferential treatment. Or in return for nothing at all. Rank hath its prerogatives.”

Dameron darted an alarmed glance at Finn. “You don't think he was ever … required to ….”

The general shook her head. “How would I know? My point is, you are an officer. And you are his closest friend and best ally in a base full of strangers, some of whom still look at him and see the enemy. He can't really afford to lose your support.”

“I'd never! I couldn't!” Poe's expression was rapidly moving from alarmed to nauseated.

“No, you wouldn't,” she said, “and I never imagined you could. Not in a million years. But if you asked him and he said yes for the wrong reasons, I think you would never forgive yourself.”

“No,” Poe agreed softly.

“For that matter,” Organa said, “you may, as his friend, need to explain to him at some point that he has the _option_ of saying no to people who outrank him. He might not actually be clear on that.”

“Then again,” she added lightly, “perhaps our information on this was wrong, and there would be no problems at all. Just … proceed cautiously, alright?”

Poe took a deep breath. “Understood,” he said, “and thanks for the warning.”

Organa lingered at the medical bay while Finn finished his checkup and then offered to escort him to Intelligence. “I've been thinking, Finn, if it might be possible to turn any of the other Stormtroopers to defect. Do you think you were unique, in wanting to get out?”

Finn walked in silence for a while. “No-one ever said anything to me, to make me think they wanted to. But – it wouldn't have been a safe thing to say. I don't know. I can think about it.”

“I've heard rumors,” the General said, “of ex-Stormtroopers. But I've never met anyone before you who actually acknowledged having been one. I don't really have a sense if the rumors were complete fiction, or if they were true stories about men and women who successfully disappeared and didn't want to be found.”

“I suppose either is possible,” Finn said. “Disappearing was my original plan, before I really understood that joining the Resistance was an option.”

Organa smiled. “I'm glad you decided to stay visible.” They strolled into the small conference room where Finn's debriefs were usually held and discovered Minwes Invann, the Intelligence Captain who normally conducted his interviews, already settled in her accustomed chair. “Would you mind if I sit in on your session today?”

“Of course not, ma'am,” Finn said politely, as Invann also nodded her consent. “Was there something in particular you wanted to learn about?”

“Actually, I'd like to hear a little about the First Order's training programs. We know they've changed them since the days of the sleep-taught clones, but some details could be useful. Do I understand they actually maintain schools for the Stormtrooper cadets, now?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Finn said, then paused to collect his thoughts. “Children come into the Order at different ages, so the creche years are mostly dedicated to learning to function in a group, follow rules, and the start of basic coordination and physical training. Formal education starts with the cadets at age six.

"All the cadets get the same basic training for the first six years: reading, math, science and history … um, the First Order's version of history … and the physical training. Hand-to-hand starts at six, but blaster training doesn't start until ten.

"At twelve, all the cadets get assigned to a squad and to a duty station. Physical conditioning, armed and unarmed combat continue, of course, but the academics get specialized by duty area. That's another eight years. I was assigned to sanitation,” he added, “I really only know about the coursework I got.”

The General's expression was politely interested. “And what coursework prepares you for sanitation?” she asked.

“Oh, well, engineering, chemistry, physics. A little software coding. Biology. Math, of course. You can't do any of the others without that. A lot of work on memorizing cleaning protocols, too.”

General Organa exchanged glances with Invann. “That seems like a pretty broad skill set,” she observed. “How did you actually use it?”

“Well, I sort of specialized in engineering, so I spent most of my time repairing or modifying the cleaning droids. We actually weren't supposed to do any programming on them, but all the really sharp coders were assigned to weapons systems and engineering; if we wanted any software modifications we had to put a work order in to the general programming queue, and it was hit-or-miss if we could even get them to understand what we needed, let alone do it for us in any useful time-frame, so we mostly just wrote the patches ourselves. The programmers gave us the root codes and then looked the other way when we wrote the software.” He shrugged. “Saved them some work, anyway.”

Finn stared off in the distance as he wrinkled his forehead in thought. “The biology was mostly microbiology; we kept a number of bacterial species for sanitation use. We had some methane-producing genera working in the organic refuse units, and a whole other set of bacteria used for radiation remediation and soil decontamination. I didn't need to do that – I was assigned ship-side as soon as I got out of school. And in the medical units, of course, we had to be able to destroy all the pathogens and then re-seed the surfaces with benign species prophylactically to prevent re-colonization by the dangerous ones. That was pretty important.

“Chemistry, that was mainly an issue when we had chemical spills. I mean, if we knew what it was, we could just look it up in the tables and see what we needed to clean it up without poisoning ourselves or dissolving a hole in the hull, but sometimes we couldn't get any record of what got spilled, so we had to figure it out for ourselves and then come up with a neutralizing agent. Sometimes, too, the supply chain got screwed … uh, messed up … and we ran out of our basic cleaning materials. Then we were stuck raiding the chemical lockers to compound our own solvents.” Finn grimaced.

“I take it you didn't like the chemistry,” the General said, amused.

“Not particularly,” Finn admitted, “though I did work with one guy, DK-9520, who was an absolute _genius_ at figuring out ways to justify blowing stuff up; it was fun to work with him.” His lips quirked in reminiscence. “His duty log was always full of notes like, 'Used rapid combustion techniques to remove encrusted chemicals from interior of fuel accelerant canisters.'” The smirk became a grin. “So even chemistry had its moments.”

The General openly grinned back at him. “How did you get away with all this? I had the impression that the First Order didn't tolerate Stormtroopers exercising that much initiative.”

“Ah, well,” Finn said, looking a little embarrassed. “Sanitation isn't, y'know, a _well-respected_ duty station. In fact, pretty much nobody ever paid any attention to us when we did stuff right, they really only noticed us when things went wrong. So as long as we didn't have an infestation of _Bartemosis ardanensis_ colonizing the entire ship through the air ducts, or the trash compactor shutting down and backing up the garbage chutes, we could get away with all sorts of stuff. We always took care of our responsibilities,” he added earnestly.

“I can see you did,” Organa assured him. “You obviously worked hard at it.”

Perhaps it was silly, to cherish praise from someone who had never even seen his work, but Finn preened a bit even so.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Finn established a schedule, he rotated through the mess hall for breakfast and lunch, trying to meet people from different areas of the base. Dinner was reserved for the pilots, who had adopted him early on out of respect for Poe, if for no other reason. It didn't hurt that Finn always regaled them with tales of his daily trials and tribulations, which made for entertaining dinner conversation.

“You seem to be figuring things out okay,” Pava reassured him one evening, when he had caught her alone.

“Mostly,” Finn agreed. “There's always something new that stumps me.”

“What's stumping you today?”

“Well,” Finn paused to consider, “here's one: you haven't really got barracks here. Everyone's assigned rooms in ones and twos, four at the most.”

“Okay …” Pava said, waiting for the problem to become clear.

“So, if everyone's sleeping in separate rooms, how do you do bedtime stories? Is there some room everyone goes to together before lights-out that I haven't found yet and then go to their beds, or does everyone take turns going around to each others' quarters, or what?”

“Is that something you can tell me?” Finn added, as Pava gaped at him. “I mean, I know not everyone here is comfortable with me, if someone doesn't want me hearing your stories, I won't take it personally or anything. I was just wondering.”

“No, no,” she said hastily. “No-one's trying to exclude you. We just, uh, adults don't do bedtime stories here. Just kids.”

“Seriously?” Finn said.

“Yeah, seriously.”

“For real? No bedtime stories at all? Not even, like, special occasions?”

“Really for real. I mean, sometimes people do tell stories but, uh, it's not a bedtime ritual or anything.”

“Well, that's a damn shame,” Finn said, visibly disappointed.

Later that evening, Finn was surprised by the knock on his door. He opened it to find Pava standing in the hall with a data pad in her hands and a slightly nervous expression on her face. “Hi, what's up?” he said, “Want to come in?”

Jessika held up her pad like an admission ticket and brushed past him into the room. “I thought,” she said, “that tonight would be a good night for a bedtime story. I brought 'The Princess Who Climbed a Mountain.' That was one of my favorites as a kid.”

Finn beamed. “I'd love to hear it,” he said.

*** * ***

They didn't meet every night, but often enough. Jess, who couldn't keep a secret to save her life, quickly dragged both Snap and Poe into their routine. Neither Snap nor Poe protested very much.

One night, Snap showed up with a backpack and a cheerful grin. “Did they let you have alcohol?” he asked Finn, as he rummaged through his bag.

“A little,” Finn said, “after battles, to help us ease down. It was pretty strictly rationed. But, you know, you could always get your hands on some if you knew who to ask.”

Snap held up a bottle triumphantly and handed it over. “Try this.”

Finn took a healthy swig and erupted in a coughing fit as the others laughed at him. “Holy shit,” he wheezed. “What the fuck is that?”

“That,” Snap said as he reclaimed his bottle, “is the finest tradition of my homeworld.” He swallowed without blinking. “Are you insulting my homeworld's booze?” He passed the bottle on.

“Hell, yes,” said Finn. “That's worse than Tanner's Best!”

“What's Tanner's Best?” Pava asked, taking a careful sip.

“According to legend,” Finn said, “Tanner was an alcoholic Stormtrooper and whenever she got assigned to a new base, the first thing she did was set up a still to ensure her supply and the second thing she did was set up another still in case the first one was found. It's made differently at every base, depending on what kind of ingredients the distillers can get their hands on.”

Poe took his sip. “Did you ever have a still?”

Finn smirked. “Never needed to. I worked in sanitation. We found everyone else's stills.” He regarded the bottle suspiciously as Poe passed it over and handed it on without drinking. “Except maybe in engineering. There were areas that the engineers worked really hard to keep everyone away from, but we were pretty sure we knew what was going on there.”

“So,” Pava said, eyes sparking mischievously. “We know of at least one vice Stormtroopers indulge in. How about sex? Do Stormtroopers have sex?”

Poe glanced at Finn sideways, Organa's warnings suddenly echoing in his head. Finn, however, wore a wide-eyed expression of confusion. “Dunno,” he said, “what's sex?”

Time froze for a moment while everyone looked around at each other, and then at Poe. ' _Why are you staring at me?_ ' he thought, simultaneously relieved that the General had been so wrong and dismayed by the implications.

Everyone's eyes swerved back to Finn as he made a strangled, snorting noise and then doubled over, chortling. “Your faces! You should _see_ your _faces_!”

“Very funny,” said Snap, rolling his eyes.

“It is, oh, it is!” Finn crowed and suddenly they were all howling. Finn struggled to bring himself under control, but he kept bursting out in snickers that triggered waves of laughter all around.

Finally, they subsided. “That was good,” Finn said, wiping his eyes. “So, in case you weren't clear, yes, Stormtroopers have sex. Who doesn't have sex?”

“Well,” Jess said apologetically, “you hear all sorts of stories.”

“I'm not sure I even want to know,” Finn said. He thought for a moment. “That being said, I should probably find out what the rules are here.” He looked expectantly at the others.

“It's not too complicated,” Poe put in, seeing an opportunity. “You can't have sex with anyone above you or below you in your own chain of command. Anyone at your own level in your own chain, or anyone at all in a separate chain of command is fine. Um … don't ask anyone for sex if you know they're married or in a serious relationship. That just makes things complicated. And consent is critical. If you ask someone and they say no, you have to accept it and move on. If someone isn't in any condition to say yes or no – like, they're too drunk to make a clear decision, or they're really just too young, or you can't communicate clearly with them – then consider them off limits. And if someone asks you and you don't want them, you tell them no. Doesn't matter if they outrank you or whatever, they have to accept it.”

Finn was starting to look a little concerned. “You can have sex with your teammates? Isn't that bad for morale?”

“Sometimes,” Poe admitted, “but people do it anyway. I mean, the folks you spend the most time with are the ones you are most likely to get interested in, right?”

“That would never have been allowed, for us,” Finn said. “Absolutely _never_ with anyone in your own company.”

“So who did you have sex with?” Jessika asked.

“People in _other_ companies,” Finn said, as though this ought to have been obvious which, to be fair, maybe it should have been.

“Were there, like, bars or something where you went to meet people?” Jess asked.

“Not bars,” Finn said, “hook-up spots. If you were off duty and wanted to have sex, you went to a hook-up spot to find someone.”

“You had designated places for hooking up?” Snap asked, bemused. “Are you serious?”

“This is the First Order we're talking about,” Finn pointed out, “there were designations for _everything_.”

“I have this sudden image of a bunch of identically-armored Stormtroopers hanging out in a room, trying to flirt through their helmets ….” Jess said.

“Not sure what flirting is,” Finn said, “but we totally didn't wear the armor off duty. Like, _ever_. That stuff was uncomfortable enough when we _had_ to wear it, no way were we volunteering to wear it when we  didn't have to.”

“If you didn't flirt,” Snap said, “how did you pick someone up?”

“You picked whoever was there first,” Finn said, “that was kind of the rule. Whoever was waiting the longest, or if the place was empty when you got there, whoever's the first person to get there after you do, that's who you went with. Unless there was more than one person there and you'd been with some of them before, then you went with a person you hadn't been with before.”

The others were staring at him again. “What if you didn't want the first person who walked through the door?” Poe asked.

“What do you mean?” Finn asked.

“What if you weren't attracted to the first person through the door,” Poe clarified.

Finn shrugged. “I mean, you could make it work. Just close your eyes, if it's really an issue. Lots of people like to close their eyes anyway, so no-one will take offense at that.”

The others were still staring at him. “So, you couldn't decide who to have sex with?” Pava asked.

“Of course you're deciding to have sex with someone,” Finn said, growing increasingly confused by their confusion. “If you don't want sex, you don't go to a hook-up spot. But, if you don't have designated hook-up spots here, how do _you_ find people to have sex with?”

“When you see someone you think is attractive,” Snap explained, “you go talk to them. You introduce yourself, chat, flirt. Sometimes you can end up having sex with someone you just met, sometimes you spend a while getting to know them first. Anyway, eventually you ask them. Or they ask you. And then, like Poe said, it's yes or no. Or sometimes it's maybe, if they haven't made up their mind yet, then you just hang out and flirt with each other some more until you both figure out what you want.”

“But,” Finn protested, “how do you know who's looking for sex in the first place?”

“You don't,” Jess said. “Sometimes, you want someone who isn't looking for sex at all. Just, you flirt with them to let them know you're interested, and see if you can get them to be interested in you.”

“And flirting is ….?”

“Flirting is …. ways of talking and acting and looking that hint to people that you're maybe interested and maybe encourage them to be interested, too,” Jess said unhelpfully. “It might be something you'll need to watch people do to understand it.”

“So you could end up asking for sex with someone who doesn't want it at all?” Finn asked, looking distressed.

“Yeah, that goes back to the 'saying no' thing Poe was talking about,” Jess said.

“And do people actually _do_ that?” Finn asked. “Because I gotta say, I don't know what sexual manners are like here, but where I'm from, telling someone they're so unattractive you can't possibly have sex with them would be _super_ rude. No-one would want to be the jerk who said that.”

“There are ways to say it that are a lot politer than that,” Poe said. “It just takes practice. And yeah, it can hurt someone's feelings if you're not careful, but really, everyone gets rejected sometimes. Our whole system for hooking up with people assumes you can and _will_ say no honestly. If you don't want sex,” he added to hammer the point home, “you _need_ to say no. Lying about that will cause a lot of problems for you and for your partner.”

Finn took a deep breath. “So let me see if I've got this straight,” he said. “There's no way to know who does or doesn't want sex, unless someone just flat-out tells you you're ugly, only they say it more politely. If you think you want someone and they haven't yet said you're ugly, you hint around that you might or might not be interested, to see if they hint back that they might or might not be interested. After a lot of hinting, you guess at whether or not they are hinting that they are interested, in which case you ask them, or if you're not sure, you hint some more and wait to see if you can figure it out. If you ask them, then they either decide what they do or don't want, or they just hint some more, in which case you hint back, until at some point someone maybe decides something or not and you might or might not end up in a bed somewhere, and who knows where that is, because if you don't have designated hook-up spots, I'm betting you don't have designated beds nearby, either.”

The others looked at each other helplessly. “Err … that's not exactly …” Snap said, “... but umm … kind of?”

Finn stared at them. “That has to be the most fucked-up system I've ever heard of for doing _anything_.” He snagged Snap's bottle back and took a morose drink. “I'm never getting laid again,” he mourned.


	5. Chapter 5

Dameron glanced anxiously at the clock.

“Got somewhere to be?” the General asked.

He blushed a little. “It's my turn for bedtime stories,” he said, compulsively honest.

“You're reading someone bedtime stories?” she asked archly, “Who would that be?”

Poe darkened some more. “It's a Stormtrooper tradition, apparently. Finn was really disappointed when he discovered we don't do it here. He's got a bunch of us coming around to his room a few times a week now, to read to each other. Err … anyway, most of us read. Finn actually stands up and tells stories.”

“You're kidding me,” the General said. “Stormtroopers tell each other bedtime stories?”

“Uh, yeah, it seems so. They actually consider storytelling a high art form. Finn's been trying to teach us to do it properly, but Snap's the only one who's really taken to it so far.”

“That is surprisingly charming. So what constitutes 'doing it properly', in Finn's eyes?”

Poe knitted his brow in thought. “Finn says the best storytellers know hundreds of stories by heart and can edit them on the fly. They have to be able to invent new stories, to capture events that have just happened. They have these specific tempos and rhythms associated with different moods, and they're expected to be able to rhyme extemporaneously. Like, reciting in 3/4 time means one thing, and 2/4 time means something else. Oh, and they have to be able to do impersonations of people's speech, expressions, and physical mannerisms, to connect actual people to the story characters. Pantomime and slap-stick are part of it, too.”

Organa raised her eyebrows. “That _is_ an art form.”

Poe nodded. “Apparently, the Stormtroopers value their storytellers so highly that when a company is ordered into battle, the Troopers will surreptitiously shuffle themselves around to move their best storytellers into the most protected positions, in hopes that they'll all make it back in one piece.”

“Was Finn one of his company's best storytellers?”

“He says no, not by a long shot. But he seems pretty good to me.”

*** * ***

“How's the back today?” asked Captain Invann, settling in for the day's session and turning on the audio and video recorders.

“Pretty good,” Finn said. “My physical therapist upped my goals and I'm getting cut down to two days a week with him.”

“Great news,” she smiled. “Ready to get going?”

“Sure,” said Finn.

“All right. I've got a change from tactics and logistics today. Kalonia gave me a list of questions about First Order medical units. Know anything about that?”

“Yeah,” Finn said confidently. “About the layouts, anyway. We were responsible for cleaning and sanitizing them.”

“How much space do you think was devoted to them on a Resurgent-class destroyer?”

Finn closed his eyes to picture the space, fingers twitching as he counted in his head. “Seventy-five beds for critical care. Four operating theaters. Eight exam rooms... those could be reconfigured for minor surgeries if needed. Twenty bacta tanks. If there was a crush of casualties, they'd empty out the storage rooms up and down the hallway and set up portable beds in there. They'd also do that if they needed to quarantine people for infectious diseases. Those storage rooms got special air filtration systems. Whenever possible, they didn't keep people in the medical bay, though. They'd rather move people back to their own beds and bring them back and forth for care, if they could. We frequently had someone on bed rest in our barracks.”

“We had heard that Stormtroopers didn't get medical care,” Invann said. “Just got abandoned or killed if they were injured. But you're saying that's not true?”

“We always got medical care,” Finn said, staring at his hands, “you know, unless it was something really incapacitating. People who fell on the battlefield got left behind, but that's different.”

“Is it?” she asked.

“Absolutely. We got good medical care.”

“Look at me,” Invann said. “What are you remembering?”

His shoulders twitched back into proper attention and Finn stared at the wall behind the Captain's right ear. “I got care any time I was injured, ma'am. Nothing serious, really. Sprained wrists and ankles. A dislocated shoulder, once.”

“Who didn't get medical care?”

“Stormtroopers always got care.”

“In your own time, Finn,” she said quietly. When he did not speak, she eventually added, “This is information the Resistance needs.”

“This …” Finn stopped, his jaw snapping shut.

“There are no consequences to speaking here,” Invann said gently.

“This is not … this is … reconditioning.”

“You were reconditioned, around this?”

Finn shook his head.

Invann tried again. “You would be reconditioned if you spoke of this?”

He nodded abruptly.

“Would it be easier if I was not looking at you?” she offered.

“That would be cowardice,” Finn whispered. He stared at the wall for another long minute before he said, “Children become cadets at age six.”

“What happens to children who are injured?”

“Injured severely or … defective …. who couldn't keep up …. Training starts at six.”

“Are cadets given medical care?”

Finn was back to staring at his shaking hands. “Can I have a data pad?”

The captain passed hers across the table to him. Finn's hands fumbled as he picked up the stylus. _They disappeared_ , he wrote swiftly. _They told us they were transferred to another unit. But as we got older, we knew there wasn't any other unit nearby to take them._ He slid the pad across the table, then grabbed it back. _The last time it happened in my unit, we were eight. But it happened a_ _few times_ _in the creche,_ _several at once_ _._ He shoved it back to her again. “Once, I heard an officer say 'culled'. I knew not to ask what it meant,” he whispered.

“Once I heard a story,” he continued, “about the Time Before. The soldiers in that story were killed if they were injured, only they called it 'decommissioned'. They were soldiers in that story, but they might have been Stormtroopers. Sometimes the stories don't speak that way.” Finally, Finn dared to glance back up at Invann.

Invann had her fingers laced together, her chin on her joined hands, her full attention on Finn's face. “What is the Time Before?”

“The time before the first storytellers. The first storytellers learned the first stories from the people of Time Before.”

“Who were the first storytellers?” she asked.

“They were the first people to tell the stories,” Finn said. His breathing was starting to even out again.

“Were they Stormtroopers?”

“All storytellers are Stormtroopers.”

“And were there Stormtroopers in the Time Before?”

Finn nodded. “Most of the stories are about Stormtroopers, whether they're from the Time Before or not.”

“But there were no storytellers in the Time Before, even among the Stormtroopers?”

“No. The first storytellers learned their stories from the people of Time Before.”

Invann cocked her head at him. “Do you have any idea if these stories were true?”

“I think all the stories are true,” Finn said, “but some of them are made up to hide the true bits.”

“Tell me,” Invann said, “did your officers know any of these stories, or was it just the Stormtroopers?”

“The officers knew we told stories,” Finn said, “but we never told _them_ stories. It's always possible they were recording in the barracks or something, though. That's why some stories didn't say what they said.”

“Stories were how you told each other the things that couldn't be said,” Invann interpreted.

“Or didn't tell each other the things that couldn't be said. Sometimes what wasn't said was the whole point of the story. Everything important became a story,” Finn added. “Otherwise it would be forgotten.”

Invann suddenly wore an expression of revelation. “It never occurred to them to recondition away the stories, did it?”

“No,” Finn said, meeting her eyes fully for the first time. “I don't think so. And they couldn't have done it, even if they wanted to. One Trooper tells a storyteller. The storyteller tells the company. Squads get traded around and put out on temporary duty assignment, and tell the story to their new companies. They can wipe one Trooper's memory of what happened to him, but if the memory becomes a story, everyone else will remember it for him. As long as there are storytellers, the memory survives.” He paused, grimaced, stared back down at his hands, twisting together. “I didn't have time to tell anyone before I ran, and I wouldn't have dared to risk it, even if I could have. Someone else will tell my story, and it won't really be mine.”

“You think your company will tell a story about you?” Invann asked.

Nines' cries of “Traitor!” echoed in Finn's ears. “Yeah,” he said. “They do.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Sure,” Dameron said, “but then, I'm pretty sure my parents got married because of me.”

Jess and Snap laughed, Finn smiled along with the joke. “You have no idea what he meant, do you?” Jess asked him.

“… Not precisely ….” Finn admitted.

“My parents were both fighting for the Rebellion when I was born – not an ideal time to have a kid. And I arrived only five months after my parents' wedding. So it's likely they decided to get married then because my mother got pregnant accidentally.”

Finn's brows kinked up. “Wait, weren't they soldiers?”

“Sure. My father was infantry. Mami was a pilot. But they were both serving in the Rebellion, if that's what you're asking.”

“So how'd she get pregnant?” Finn asked, apparently oblivious to the impropriety of the question.

“Umm … the usual way?”

“I mean, I just would have thought it would be impossible.”

“I thought you said there are female Stormtroopers,” Jess said.

“Yeah?” Finn said.

“So … you know how men and women have sex … right?”

Looking affronted, Finn made a two-handed gesture that suggested that he did indeed know how men and women have sex.

“Err … and you know how that can result in babies?”

“Yes,” Finn said tartly. “I do know how babies are made.”

“So … what's the confusion?”

Finn shrugged. “I'm not doubting your word. I just don't see how a _soldier_ could have gotten pregnant, is all.”

“Didn't female Stormtroopers ever get pregnant?”

“No.”

“Not even by accident?”

“No.”

“So, they never had sex with men?”

“No, women had sex with men. They just never got pregnant.”

“You mean, the First Order aborted any pregnancies?”

“No, I mean they never got pregnant,” Finn said again, irritated. “All the kids who are going to be soldiers or pilots get sterilized in processing, males and females both, and then the females get implants to stop their cycles once they are fully grown. So really, there's never any _possibility_ of a pregnancy. But I guess that isn't how it works here?”

“Wait,” Poe said, “all Stormtroopers get sterilized when they're kids?”

“Yeah,” Finn said. “It's a standard part of the medical processing. Prevents problems later.  Like, you know, accidental pregnancies .”

“That's criminal!” Snap said, aghast.

“Is it?” Finn asked, taken aback. “Well, it's not like the First Order is really invested in following anyone else's rules.”

“I can't believe they would do that!” he continued.

Finn  was starting to look agitated,  eyes flicking from one shocked face to the next .  “It's a pretty minor procedure, they just clip the tubes,”  he said. “I've never heard of anyone having problems from it.”

“So? It was _your_ body,” Jess offered. “That's terrible!”

Finn stared at her. “That's terrible? _That's_ your idea of terrible?” He bounced to his feet and suddenly words were tumbling out of him as he paced the room, gesturing wildly. “ _That's_ what upsets you? Some little nothing of a surgery, a couple of micro-incisions?”

“They … took away your choice to have children,” Poe explained. “Did something to your body you couldn't have understood or consented to.”

Finn rounded on him. “It wasn't my body! It was _never_ my body. It was their body. Can't you see that? Don't you understand? It was their life and their death. Their fingers that they wanted to use to pull the trigger. Don't you understand? They were going to make me be a person who will shoot children. They were going to make me _forget_ that _I don't want to kill children._ What the hell is a _scar_?”

“I'm … sorry,” Poe said, backing up.

“Don't be sorry!” Finn snarled. “Don't pity me! I _chose_ who I am!” He whirled and pounded his fists on the wall, slammed himself into it again and again as the others stood in shock. Suddenly he started crying and slid to the floor, cradling his face in his hands. “It's crazy here,” he moaned. “Nothing makes sense. No-one makes sense. I don't belong here!”

A long, silent space and then Snap came over and crouched down in front of him. “Please,” he said quietly. “Tell me what happened. I want to know how you decided to run. How did you choose to be Finn?”

Finally, Finn looked up at him with tired, swollen eyes. “All right,” he said hoarsely. “But not tonight. Not tonight.”

“Okay, not tonight.”

“Okay.” He gestured at his door, and the three pilots silently filed out.

  



	7. Chapter 7

Poe looked around the hanger's informal, after-hours bar. It was crowded tonight, pilots elbow to elbow with mechanics. Many nights, someone would be playing an instrument. Often, it would be Poe. Tonight, however, the place was quiet, the murmur of private conversations a comfortable background noise. Beside him, Finn and Jess nursed their beers and shared an unending flow of gossip. Poe just sat and let the sound wash over him.

At the front of the room, Snap perched himself on a high stool, a large mug in front of him. Poe thought nothing of it until Snap pounded loudly on his table. “Listen up, you lot,” he boomed. “I'm going to tell you a story.”

Poe, realizing suddenly that he was about to witness Snap's first public foray into Stormtrooper-style storytelling, pounded on his own table. “Quiet down!” he demanded. “I want to hear a story!”

Snap nodded regally, acknowledging the support of the most senior officer in the room. “Tonight,” he announced, “I'm going to tell you a story about a brave, daring, and handsome young …. _Stormtrooper_.” His voice dropped half an octave on the last word, the register mysterious and comical at the same time. Several people laughed, most of them pilots. A few hissed. Poe risked a glance at Finn, who beamed encouragement at his best student.

“Once upon a time, there was a dashing young Stormtrooper, who lived on a big destroyer, in a faraway corner of space. He was an _excellent_ Stormtrooper, strong and fast and resolute, a steady shot and a determined mind. In fact, he really had only one flaw. Unfortunately for him, it was a pretty serious one.”

“You see, this Stormtrooper, he had a terrible weakness, as Stormtroopers reckon these things: despite all his years of training and conditioning, this poor fellow, he _liked_ people. In fact, when he saw people around him hurting, he actually _felt_ _for them_. _”_

Snap nodded somberly at his audience. “I know. I've shocked you. Really, I'm sure our Stormtrooper shocked himself with this, this _deviancy_. Surely, it shocked his officers. Such a tragic flaw, in one who was otherwise such a promising soldier.” He took a swallow of beer and nodded again. “I'm sure it won't surprise you that his officers tried their best to train this _degenerate weakness_ out of him. Extra duty hours of _filthy_ jobs. A thousand knuckle pushups. But no matter how much they punished him, they could never quite get him to stop doing all those _aberrant,_ _disgusting_ things he liked to do, like,” and here Snap's voice dropped to a stage whisper, “ _helping people_ and _looking after his teammates_.”

“Now FN-2187, for that was his designation, did his best to be a good Stormtrooper, and did his best to hide it from his officers when he couldn't be a good Stormtrooper, but still, they knew all about his dirty little secret.” Poe glanced again at Finn and found him wide-eyed and perhaps even a little shocked. Had he not realized where this story was going? But then, Poe reminded himself, most of the stories _Finn_ told were about brave, daring, young Stormtroopers. Snap's story might not have seemed so targeted at the start.

“Now, it happened one day that FN-2187 and his company got sent out on a mission. They weren't told where they were going, or what they were doing, but they were ordered to go and so they went. They were marched into the hanger, and they were marched into the atmospheric assault landers, and that's when FN-2187 realized that things were about to get bad. Very bad. Because atmospheric assault landers only get used for one thing.”

“On the way down, their Captain briefed them. The target was a village, a filthy, Resistance-infested village called Tuanul, full of insurgents and traitors, on a miserable back-water planet called Jakku. You've never seen a hell-hole like this Jakku – sand and rocks as far as the eye could see – and these Resistance scum were living there, passing information back to the generals. In fact, there was one Resistance bastard in particular they were to get – a pilot there to spy on the First Order – and they were to take him alive, if possible.”

“Imagine it. The shaking of the shuttle as it broke atmosphere. The weight of the assault rifle. The taste of the sandy air, even through a filtered mask. You can taste it, can't you? FN-2187 could. Even before the shuttle doors fully opened, he could hear the blaster fire, those desperate villagers firing on an armored assault shuttle with their little hand weapons.”

“That battle, it didn't even take fifteen minutes. Can I even call it a battle? Stormtroopers died. FN-2187's squadmate dropped, the friend he'd helped so many times, but FN-2187 couldn't save him this time. But armed and armored Troopers again a ragged little village? There was never any doubt how it would end.” Snap shook his head tiredly, pantomimed throwing a blaster to the ground. “The villagers dropped their weapons and the Resistance pilot spy got dragged onto the ship, and then, then FN-2187's world turned upside down, because the Captain ordered the Troopers to round up all the those pathetic little villagers. And the Troopers did it, into each miserable hut and shed, and herded all those people into the square. Not just the ones who dared to fire on the might of the First Order, but all of them. There were children in that village. Toddlers, too scared to scream. Do you have children? FN-2187 didn't. None of the Stormtroopers did. But when the Captain ordered the Troopers to shoot them, FN-2187 stared at those children. And then he pointed his blaster at the ground and held his fire.”

Snap's audience murmured, drawn in to the story in spite of themselves. He looked around, peered into their faces. “Do you know what happens to Stormtroopers who defy their orders? Who step outside the bounds? Do you know what happens to Stormtroopers who dare to think for themselves?” He leaned back and took a deep breath.

“They call it _reconditioning_ ,” he said lightly. “Sounds likes something you'd do to a malfunctioning old droid. Take it down to the shop and _recondition_ it. But I guess that's not too far from how the First Order sees their Stormtroopers. Hell, they don't even give them names. Just serial numbers. Like a damn droid. And when they malfunction, they _recondition_ them.”

“Can you imagine what it would be like, to have your _brain_ reformatted? Wiped down to baseline, a new program installed? Why, you'd practically be a new person, wouldn't you? All your memories gone. Your likes and dislikes, your loves gone. Your dead friends, the buddy who died in your arms, well, they'd be gone forever, even their memories gone.” Snap's voice turned glacially cold. “Your soul, gone. And the new you would be whoever they wanted you to be. Why, I bet you'd be the best little soldier ever. You'd go where you were told to go, and you'd do what you were told to do, and you'd do it well, too. Everything you were ordered to do. Even murder children,” Snap smiled sweetly, “and you'd feel good about it, following orders, just like you're supposed to.”

In the echoing silence of the room, Snap paused to drink his beer, and when he started up again, his voice was conversational. “Did I mention,” he asked, “that the officers _saw_ FN-2187 hold his fire?” He paused to let the horror of that sentence sink in, then smiled again. “I think you know how this story ends. FN-2187 was ordered to report for _reconditioning_. To march himself down to the room at the back of medical, the room no-one dared to talk about, to take himself off to his own execution. Well, to the execution of his soul, anyway. His body would survive. And right that instant, FN-2187 decided he'd rather his soul survive than his body. He was going to escape, or die trying, but they wouldn't use his fingers to pull that trigger again. Not against children. Not against anyone.”

Snap shrugged, gestured broadly. “Of course, that did leave him with one, teensy, tiny problem. Just a little problem. About this big.” He brought his hands back together, curled them around an imaginary steering yoke and pulled back, legs straightening, fingers gliding through the ignition sequence on an invisible dashboard, and every X-wing pilot in the room leaned back in reflexive muscle memory. “FN-2187 was on a bloody big destroyer, and the only way off was on a ship, and FN-2187 knew everything about firing blasters, but damned if he knew the first thing about flying a ship.”

“And then,” Snap glowed with inspiration, his voice quick and eager, “then it came to him, in one sudden rush, because on that whole bloody, big destroyer, he knew of one person, just one person who wanted off that damn ship even worse than he did. And that one person … just happened to be a pilot.”

He grinned fiercely. “He had a way off, a way out. If only … if only the pilot was still alive, still conscious, still …” Snap inspected his own hands, flexing and uncurling, “... _intact_ enough to fly. He'd been interrogated for hours. But it was the only chance he had, so FN-2187 slammed that helmet down on his head, another anonymous Trooper, and marched into the interrogation room. 'Ren wants the prisoner,' he said, and the Trooper on guard unshackled the man right quick, because you don't defy Kylo Ren.”

“FN-2187 grabbed the pilot's arm, jabbed a blaster in his ribs, and hauled him out of the room and down the hall, down the back corridors of the ship, until they were out of sight and FN-2187 shoved the pilot into a kriffing _broom closet_ and took off his helmet and said, 'This is a rescue. I'm helping you escape. Can you fly a TIE fighter?'”

“'I can fly anything,' said the pilot.” The assembled pilots and mechanics laughed, the mimicry unmistakeable. “'Wait. Why are you helping me?'”

“'Because it's the right thing to do,' said FN-2187, and maybe the pilot recognized the look of desperation in the Stormtrooper's eyes because suddenly, he understood.

“'You need a pilot,' he said.”

“'I need a pilot,' FN-2187 admitted.”

“'All right,' said the pilot. 'We're gonna do this.'”

Snap paused to survey the room. “And they did. FN-2187 slapped that helmet back on and marched the pilot down to the TIE fighter hanger and no-one even looked twice at a Stormtrooper and his prisoner. At least, no-one looked twice until the pilot got them up in the air without releasing the anchor hitch and they were stuck in the hanger, flopping like a fish on a line with the whole Stormtrooper legion firing at them while FN-2187 tried to sweep the hanger clear and the pilot tried to figure out how to unlock the anchor.” Snap pantomimed two-fingered poking at random buttons, then shook his head in exasperation.

Poe thought about protesting, then bit his tongue. Finn was the hero of this story, and if that made it his fate to be the comic sidekick, so be it. “Hey,” Finn called out suddenly, “he'd never flown one of those before!”

Snap nodded acknowledgment of the point. “True, true. At any rate, the pilot did succeed in getting the anchor loose. 'By the way,' he said as they flew away, 'Thank you for rescuing me. I'm Poe Dameron. What's your name?'”

“'My designation is FN-2187,' said the Stormtrooper.”

“'Okay, but what's your _name_?'”

Snap paused, looking puzzled. “FN-2187 really wasn't sure how to answer that. He'd been a Stormtrooper, an interchangeable part with a serial number, for as long as he could remember. Finally, he just said, 'I haven't got one.'”

“'Well,' said the pilot, 'Until you do have one, how about I call you Finn?'”

“FN-2187 thought about that, about being his own person, with his own name. He thought about turning his back on the life he'd been raised to, and about choosing his own future, and about never being interchangeable again. 'I'd like that,' he said. 'I'll be Finn.'”

“Of course,” Snap said, “the story doesn't end there. They had a few more adventures ahead of them. But the rest will have to wait for another night.”

The assembled crew applauded and cheered for Snap, and for Finn, and for Poe. Poe applauded as well, though the story Snap recited wasn't precisely how he remembered it all going down. Maybe that didn't matter, he thought, as he watched Finn wipe tears off his face and fight his way through the crowd to pull Snap into a bear hug. Maybe it was the story Finn needed to have told.

Maybe it was the story Poe would tell from now on.

  



End file.
